


doubt the stars are fire, doubt truth to be a liar?

by pendraegon



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, HOWEVER it centers a lot on uther's deception so please bear that in mind before you read, no beta we die like gaheris and gareth, there is no graphic depiction of rape in this work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26038234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendraegon/pseuds/pendraegon
Summary: This is not a fairytale, there is no happy end nor beginning nor is the middle very joyous either — this is a tale of Ygraine’s love lying cold and Ygraine’s son doomed from the very start, and of Ygraine herself.(Kill Uther. Gorlois’s eyes are sad and hollow. Kill him, kill him, kill him.)
Relationships: Gorlois du Bois/Ygraine du Bois, Ygraine du Bois & Arthur Pendragon
Kudos: 9





	doubt the stars are fire, doubt truth to be a liar?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Arthurianum Zine August 2020 issue.
> 
> Title is from Shakespeare's Hamlet.

Ygraine knows something is wrong when Gorlois comes to her, when his hands encircle her waist and grip tightly, just on the border of too much, _too_ painful, and she winces at the uncharacteristic display of strength. He is her beloved husband, her Gorlois, battleworn and weary, sword still hanging at his hip, her favor still fastened tightly around his arm, armor dented and no longer luminous in the starlight that streams into Tintagel. She draws back, tentative, and freezes — his eyes are barren and unfamiliar, his scent is wrong, and though his voice is as melodious to her as ever, the way it intertwines with hers is off, a harmony misplaced, an overture overstepped, and she can hear a far off cry in the distance, can hear the watery brogue of Gorlois’s sobs even as the stranger who wears his face sighs in her ears.

(Ygraine has never been so scared.)

* * *

“I am king.” Uther’s voice thunders, a cacophonic noise that splinters the growing unease that hangs in the air, so potent that Merlin can almost taste it. Uther’s words seem as if it alone could shatter the delicate glass windows and even uproot the cold stone beneath the Pendragon throne. The very foundation of Camelot seems to shake with Uther’s decrees and Merlin does not need to close his eyes to envision the future, what will come to pass, the one and only truth — harrowing scenes of meadows of grain and fields of flowers ruthlessly crushed under the soles of a stampede of soldiers dressed in Camelot’s colors, rivers and bodies of water muddled by blood, filth, and viscera. Uther’s word is law, iron and grime and glory and God and truth.

(But truth is so easy to bend, to shatter, to _break_.)

“I am king.” Uther repeats, his face cloaked in shadow, but the fury in his eyes is unmistakable, the savage twist of his mouth, his shoulders are hiked up to his ears, and his hands shake uncontrollably. He sounds as if he is a braying beast, hellbent for flesh and drunk on the taste of ichor dripping from its own salivating jaws.“I am king and Gorlois du Bois will submit to me.”

Merlin bows low. Merlin knows his part. Merlin smiles placidly and will damn them all to a fool’s prophecy.

* * *

_Kill him_.

Ygraine turns, startled. The chambers are empty — still, desolate, as haunting as a grave and just as cold as the dirt where Gorlois’s bones must lie, abandoned and desecrated and restless.

(She cannot bring herself to call the chambers hers. Uther had gifted them to her not for her own sake but his — the rug is plush underneath her feet, the tapestries are finely weaved and unimaginably vivid, her gowns are silk and her cloaks are trimmed with mink fur, her jewelry anointed with gems and rubies and pearls, but Ygraine knows very well what this is, what the gesture truly represents.)

(Her gilded cage.)

(She may be Uther’s wife and queen now in name, but in her heart, in her mind, in her spirit, she is Ygraine du Bois. Uther will not take this away from her, Uther will not take more away from her, Ygraine vows this to herself.)

(This vow she will keep, this she will not break.)

* * *

“I am king,” Uther says, plainly, derisively. His hand reaches to grip Ygraine’s chin, his touch is light, but there is steel in his eyes, power in the way his fingers twitch against the curve of her cheek. 

The hearth’s embers are weak, weak against the onslaught of the dark and the damp of Camelot’s nights. Stray embers flicker and flare, the crown on Uther’s brow a dizzyingly dazzling gold, so much so that it appears as if the crown itself is the only source of light in the dim of the great hall. 

(As if the sun eclipsed the moon and consumed all of the stars in the sky.)

“I am king and your lord, and you answer to no one but me.”

* * *

The sensation of being watched haunts Ygraine. She misses Tintagel, she misses Gorlois, she misses her family, she misses and misses and aches with it —

— her skin prickles under the unseen specter’s watchful eye, and she shudders in revulsion. The sensation is not unlike the feeling of someone’s hot breath against the slope of her neck, and she closes her eyes, prays that she does not hear the broken echo of —

— _kill him, kill him, kill him_.

* * *

Gorlois was always gentle with her, but then again Gorlois was a kind man. His diplomacy and amiable smile belied the quiet, contemplative power that slept within him. Other lords and ladies believed him to be soft, weak — but his countenance was what struck Ygraine first. His sweet voice, his calloused hand dwarfing hers, the serenity of his brow, and the almost boyish glint in his eyes. His shoulders never sloped and his posture never faltered — head high and his ideals even loftier, and Gorlois had been blinding. He had seemed more than mortal, and Ygraine had brushed away the tears he had shed when she had accepted him as hers, and traced his scars, reminders that he was not divinity reincarnated.

Gorlois always listened to her, took her words to heart, and Ygraine knows now that it was she who damned him to die.

* * *

“My king,” Merlin says. “There is a way. There is a way, but like all things, there is a price.”

“I will pay it,” Uther’s response is immediate, swift, and altogether too eager. “I will pay you tenfold if you can make it come to be.”

Merlin smiles sardonically, lips twisting in a facsimile of glee. “It is not yours to pay. But your honor, your promise, your word will do for now.”

* * *

This is not a fairytale, there is no happy end nor beginning nor is the middle very joyous either — this is a tale of Ygraine’s love lying cold and Ygraine’s son doomed from the very start, and of Ygraine —

Uther’s gifts had grown extravagant, Uther’s attention had grown lascivious, Uther did not care that she was married, that she had no intention in being anything of his much less a mistress, Uther was king and Uther _wanted_.

Uther had sent sweetmeats, fragrant wines, delicate flowers artfully arranged, gold and silver trinkets, the most beautiful dresses — and Ygraine had turned them all away, instructed Uther’s servants to return such precious items back to the king and that she could not, would not accept and that the matter should no longer hold weight nor bear thought.

Uther had not been rebuked nor phased. Instead, he had sent Ygraine a cup filled to the brim during the feast and Ygraine had refused. From where he sat, Uther had straightened up and looked her in the eye across the table, and Ygraine had froze in shock as Uther announced that all ladies at Court would be receiving small tokens and wine as a gesture of hospitality and of his generosity to their lords for their continued allegiance to the crown.

(Uther knew that Ygraine knew what Uther knew — to turn down the king’s gift, to shun his kindness, to refuse to partake in drink and merriment would be a brazen declaration of distrust and dishonor that would reflect on Gorlois and would cause uproar over the legitimacy of Gorlois’s vassalship and devotion.)

Gorlois had stared at her, curious at her hesitancy, his face lined with worry at her distress. He had reached out to grasp her hand and rubbed his fingers across her knuckles, a soothing gesture that normally invoked calm within her. She smiled weakly at him in response and sipped at the wine, the metal of the cup frigid against her mouth. She had paled when she saw the look of triumph flash cross Uther’s face, his eyes dark and shining, how his fingers tightened into a fist at the sight of the dark red liquid flowing down her throat.

* * *

Gorlois’s hands tangle in her hair. His grip is much too rough, _her_ Gorlois would never touch her like she’s property as if she’s a possession. She turns her head, unable to bear the sensation of this phantasm with her husband’s eyes, his mouth, the noble jut of his chin, and the gentle sweep of his brow.

(She turns her head and she sees her husband, her Gorlois, a ghastly bloodied specter by the foot of the bed, and he is weeping so violently that his form flickers.)

(It is such a terrible sight but it is Gorlois and she drinks in his visage even as the impostor whispers lies into her neck.)

* * *

Ygraine’s hands shake. _No_ , it couldn’t be, fate wouldn’t be so cruel, would it?

(She is — )

She sobs brokenly into her palms not even bothering to swallow her screams.

* * *

Ygraine dreams.

There is a boy — he is so small, his face ruddy and tear-stained. He babbles and fusses and cries, and truly, he is no different from any other baby Ygraine has seen in her life, but the more she stares, the more her heart hurts for there is _something_ about the child, something familiar, something dangerous, something that causes Ygraine to want to cry.

(The child looks eerily like Gorlois, but Ygraine can see her own features reflected in the slope of the baby’s nose and the jut of his brow.)

The child blinks, one chubby hand extending towards her —

— and Ygraine, in spite of herself, reaches back —

( — Ygraine wakes up. Her pillow is wet with her tears.)

* * *

“You have not been as you are.” Gorlois had told her once they had retired to their rooms after the feast. 

Unable to bring herself to answer and unashamed at her own recalcitrance, Ygraine had sat in the chair closest to the fire, trembling from fatigue and fury, desperate and knowing that the flame would not settle the icy feeling growing in her chest. Gorlois had knelt down by her feet, prostrating himself before her as he took her hands in his. “I don’t know why and I won’t know unless you tell me, Ygraine, my love, what ails you?”

Ygraine had bit her lip and opened her mouth but no sound tumbled forth. Gorlois had merely squeezed her hands, murmuring to her softly to take her time.

(And the truth came out and Ygraine shook from it, her shoulders sagging in relief as she listed every one of Uther’s trespasses.)

Rage was not a companion of Gorlois’s — he was slow to anger, jealousy was neither a lover of his, and it was not in his nature to be impulsive, but Ygraine watched as her husband’s face grew red, the tightening of his jaw, the incredulous horror in his gaze. His grip on her remained gentle although he shook violently, looking physically ill as Ygraine described Uther’s insistence in accepting his gifts.

“Forgive me, Ygraine.” Gorlois said, his head bowed low, his voice cracking. To Ygraine’s shock, she realized he was crying. “Forgive me for bringing you here, for unknowingly forcing you to accept Uther’s tokens, for placing you in this position.”

“It is not your fault.” Ygraine’s voice rang out, much too loudly. Gorlois had flinched at the insistence in her tone. “I’ve placed _you_ in this position now — between your lord and your lady.”

Gorlois kissed the back of her palm, “No, no.” He whispered. “Don’t say that, don’t even _think_ of it. Uther means nothing to me; you’re my wife and I will take you away from here and you will never, _ever_ have to see him again. He will never look at you again and I will never let him dishonor you again.”

Ygraine stared at him in shock, recoiling. “You don’t know what it is you say.” She stammered.

“Don’t I?” Gorlois’s eyes softened as he gazed at her.

“It means war.”

“Yes,” Gorlois agreed. “For you? A thousand times over.”

Ygraine sank to the floor, Gorlois pulling her to him, his arms tight around her. She hid her face in his neck, her emotions bubbling up in her chest, up her throat, and clawed past her teeth into the warm air — she was safe here, safe with Gorlois, safe in his arms. She didn’t know it would be this cathartic, hearing Gorlois whisper reassurances into her hair of how the magnitude of his devotion to her outweighed his duty to Uther.

Her hands dug into his shoulders, the fine fabric of his tunic wrinkling underneath her hands. “Yes, _yes_. Take me away, take me far away from this place, Gorlois.”

* * *

When Ygraine comes to, the world is no longer tinged with red but the pain is still ever-present and she is woozy from blood loss. The midwives titter around her and she blinks away the haze of exhaustion.

“Where is my child?”

The midwives grow quiet. Fear trickles down the back of her spine.

“Where is my child?” Ygraine snaps, her voice hoarse.

(When the midwives do not respond, Ygraine screams and screams for Uther, the king’s own personal banshee.)

“Where is my child?” Ygraine is frantic, too pale and shaking violently. “Uther, where is my child?”

Uther smiles and it is a terrible thing to behold. “The child is gone.” He says.

“Dead?”

“No,” Uther says placidly. “Displaced. He is...payment. Your payment for us to exist together.”

Ygraine lunges at Uther, but she is too weak, collapsing upon herself like a dying star due to the ordeal she has just gone through, but she curses and spits, begging for Uther to be struck down dead before her.

* * *

This time when the sensation washes over her, Ygraine is ready.

“What are you and what is it that you wish from me?” Ygraine’s voice does not tremble; she has gone through too much, seen too much to be cowed by anyone, much less a spirit.

_Ygraine._

Her breath hitches in her throat for it is Gorlois. Gorlois in his armor, dented and dirty, Gorlois with her favor wrapped around his arm, Gorlois with his sword in its scabbard hanging by his hip, Gorlois with his throat cut out and red blossoming across his chest.

“Gorlois?” She weeps and rushes towards him, a shaky hand coming to touch his own. A strangled noise erupts from her as her arm passes through his.

 _Kill Uther_. Gorlois’s eyes are sad and hollow. _Kill him, kill him, kill him._

(Gorlois’s voice is eerie and inhuman, like the incessant wind against stone, reedy and shrill but Ygraine can pretend, can pretend that it’s his dulcet voice, honey-rich and sweet as mead.)

“I will,” Ygraine vows and her voice is steady and she is surprised to find herself no longer afraid. “I will.”

* * *

There is a woman’s reflection in the basin of water, a woman’s reflection that is not Ygraine’s own.

“I am Viviane,” the woman says. “Queen Ygraine, I am here to help.”

* * *

“I know what you’ve done,” Ygraine says.

“My lady?” Merlin blinks. The queen does not speak to him, has never even once spared a glance in his direction. She is cold and distant, seeming to have more in common with the sparkling jewels in her hair, more a whisper of a dream than human.

(Distantly Merlin panics, this is not something he has seen, not something that should come to pass. Merlin and Ygraine are never meant to interact with each other, they are two ships passing by in the night with Uther as their lone flicker of light.)

Ygraine stares at him coldly, turns, and walks away.

* * *

It is surprisingly easy for Ygraine to get her hands on poison. And it is surprisingly easier to poison Uther with it.

Uther has always underestimated her, believing Merlin’s little prophecies to be set in stone, to be the one and only truth, staunchly believing that Merlin could not be blindsided or tricked or manipulated.

(Ygraine invites Uther for a drink at her chambers; Uther, always eager for her attention, agrees.)

Uther chokes, his cup clatters to the ground, and Ygraine stares dispassionately as the ruby rich liquid stains her rugs. His eyes are comically wide and his face is a deep shade of purple as he coughs, heaves, and spits. Ygraine smirks as she crosses her legs, bringing her own cup to her lips ( _the_ cup Uther had presented to her at the feast so many moons ago) and delicately, takes a sip.

“..graine…” Uther wheezes, one hand clutching at his throat and the other, shaking, extends towards her, for help or to keep her away Ygraine does not know.

(Ygraine does not _care_.)

“You must be wondering what this is for,” she drawls, bored. She dips her finger into her non-contaminated wine, aimlessly drawing shapes upon the table. “This is for Gorlois and my child,” She hisses and Uther chokes and chokes, his lungs unable to expand. “And _this_ ,” she stands up and towers over Uther, plucking the crown from his head. “This is for _me_.”

(Once Uther is dead, Ygraine pours some poison into her own wine glass and knocks it over, her voice high and frantic as she yells for the guards.)

* * *

Ygraine dreams and in her dream is a youth washed in golden light, a circlet on his brow, and a smile splitting his face in two, a sword held clumsily in his hands.

* * *

There is a sword in a stone. There is a sword in a stone until a boy pulls it out.

* * *

Ygraine lifts up her arms and she clutches Arthur to her chest. Her fingers slide through his hair, wet with sweat and grime. His face is dirtied but she kisses his cheek anyways and her smile is jubilant. Ygraine has not smiled in so long that she feared she no longer knew how, but she finds herself unable to contain the magnitude of her joy.

She is not Merlin; she does not know what is to come — she does not know of Guinevere’s radiance, Lancelot’s humiliation, and Gawain’s self destruction. None of it matters for her child is once again in her arms and she will keep him safe.

“You look so much like your father,” she whispers and kisses him on his forehead.

* * *

Arthur, face down in the mud, a sword piercing his breast, killed by his own son, his kingdom destroyed, his legacy ruined, and in the last moments of his life, he can hear his mother’s raucous shrieks hanging like a knife above the battlefield like a banshee at the foot of her lover’s bed.

**Author's Note:**

> you can get your own physical or pdf copy of the [arthurianum zine here!!](https://arthurianum.tumblr.com/post/625284957184589824/arthurianum-vol-1) it truly was this labor of love between so many people who truly cherish the living tradition of arthuriana (:
> 
> well........this was a doozy. this is. arguably.....one of the hardest things i've ever written and i CRIED throughout much of it. PLEASE i would love to talk about this because i, uh, well...
> 
> this was the first idea that popped into my mind after i read the zine theme -- ygraine as hamlet and it WOULDN'T LEAVE ME ALONE so i ran with it... ygraine is one of my favorite characters anyways and her fate makes me so incredibly sad and angry... i knew from the beginning i wanted ygraine to get her revenge and i wanted ygraine to take matters into her own hand. 
> 
> the ending bit was..well... i actually changed it right before i submitted it because it was just...too bleak to leave it as it was. i couldn't do that to ygraine, i truly couldn't. arthur being gorlois's son can be taken as two ways though: [1] that he actually IS gorlois's son or [2] he looks like gorlois due to the spell uther was under...personally i like going with the former because i despise the latter, but you can DEFINITELY read it as the second one if you wish.
> 
> many thoughts on the ideas of banshees...the real gorlois being the banshee at the foot of the bed and how it transforms to ygraine weeping at arthur's death herself....... it's. anyways i'm getting sad thinking about this aoisjdskoa. anyways gorlois/ygraine<333 them....
> 
> special thanks to rey for letting me submit this gigantopiece in and once again congratulations to everyone who has worked on the arthurianum zine. it's spectacular!!
> 
> i'm @ [pendraegon](https://pendraegon.tumblr.com) so hmu!!


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